From the hilltop at dusk you see it, looking down on the landscape below, where the silvery river flows past the little town, past cottonwoods and willows, past houses with golden windows and golden porchlights; everything in miniature, everything quaint and wholesome.

Soon, in the gathering darkness, all forms and shapes - of houses, of buildings, of roads, and trees - are gone. Only the the lights, tiny lights, flecking the dark of winter, remain, scatter-strewn like a handful of stars, a pattern of heaven across the black. They're about life and warmth. Hopes and dreams. Rest and turning in.

Inside one tiny house with windows to the east and windows to the west, in the dark of earliest morning, while most who live there still slumber deep, tiny lights tumble down a wall. A miniature scale of that landscape seen from the distant hill. Tiny lights flecking the dark of winter, scatter-strewn like a handful of stars, a pattern of heaven across the black. They're about life and warmth. Hopes and dreams. About feeling rested and alive.